


Weak

by Riemann_integrable



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Delirium, Human Experimentation, M/M, Some sappiness at the end, Spoilers, Swearing, Violence, a little bit of going crazy from ethical concerns on matsuda's part, also known as izuru still has feelings and it's a problem, dr0 spoilers, hey! i have no idea what the fuck this is!, i'm not sure it's a clearly understandable fic, matsuda is occasionally a dick but what's new under the sun, there's a lot going on, there's the usual hc that he takes care of izuru and all that, this tag is like a constant in every matsuda fic, you know the shtick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-04 22:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15157307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riemann_integrable/pseuds/Riemann_integrable
Summary: Somehow, he was angry at Kamukura, and he couldn’t explain why. Angry at him for refusing to react like a person, whereas it was he, himself who was — or should’ve been — working towards inducing said loss of personhood. A gordian knot of ethical contradictions. Matsuda was also angry at himself.





	Weak

**Author's Note:**

> I was looking through some old files and discovered I had written a bunch of matsukamu stuff I never posted, probably because I was busy being salty at the whole fucking fandom. But, you know, might as well put it up. This fic is my self-indulgent kamuproject mess and I'm not even sure 1) it makes any sense 2) it's completely accurate 3) it's consistent with DR3 *or* DR0. About the last point, I'm pretty sure I just threw fitting it into the canon timeline out the window, but hey, that's what Kodaka did to *his own* material so why would I bother. It's very weird and harsh and a lot of stuff goes unsaid, I wish I had it in me to sit down and be a perfectionist about it but it's like 9k words and I can't get wrapped-up in it rn. 
> 
> I give... more fucks about this ship than I want to... considering how little I want to be involved with the fandom... And yet here I am, I guess.

_ He should know better _ .

 

Sometimes it’s a bit hard to get bloodstains off the wall. The tiles are very advantageous in this case, but some of bundles get into the cracks and are a bother to deal with. At least it’s somewhat fresh and will come off easier than if it had been left there for a day like last time. It should be hard to believe no one competent went there for a cleaning in the meantime — it’s a laboratory, for fuck’s sake — but in the end there’s nothing surprising about it. Everyone avoids the old school building like the plague when they don’t have anything project-related to do. Everyone — except the loser who was now cleaning up, just so there would be one responsible person in the bunch.

 

_ Why can’t he get his shit together? It’s a setback for all of us. For them, for him, for me.  _

 

Approximately three hours earlier, four rubber glove-clad hands threw  _ something _ in the lab through the door. At first glance Matsuda couldn’t discern what it was supposed to be; it had a vaguely humanoid form, except hunched over and covered in copious amounts of blood. For a few moments, he was too taken aback to do anything but stare and blink, then the disbelief set in. He stood up behind his desk, the report paper trembling and then crumpling up in his hands before being abandoned. He walked up towards the scene with quick steps but before he could ascertain what had actually happened, all that remained of the staff was the oscillation of the swing doors. 

 

_ What does he even care if it’s a setback? Why would he act for the sake of anything or anyone concrete? He doesn’t even care about himself. He wouldn’t go this far otherwise. _

 

Matsuda didn’t know where to begin. Wiping Kamukura clean could have been a good start, except it wouldn’t have helped too much with the endless mass of — blood-drenched — hair in the way. 

 

“Ugh…”

 

It was hard not to feel disgust, even with the best of intentions (a hypothetical, because that term hardly applied to his current level of irritation). Matsuda was positive that there wasn’t a single square centimetre on the subject’s body that wasn’t entirely covered in red. At least he was already naked and they spared Matsuda the effort of peeling clothes off of him; or, the whole test went down like this for whatever reason. He asked if he could assist once, and they told him off. On paper, because he was still just a student; but the Ultimate Neurologist was almost sure it had to do with him probably not liking what he would see and the Steering Committee knowing full well. 

 

*

 

“...What do you mean he went crazy?” Matsuda tried to keep his voice from going quiet so as to not lose the menacing tone.

 

“Did you or did you not give him an unprescribed drug?” The researcher before him seemed unfazed by the situation despite the bloodstains slowly drying on his glasses. There was an entire host of people glaring at Matsuda with an irritating suspicion he was already used to.

 

“I already told you I didn’t, dipshit!” He slammed a fist against the wall by him. “Now, can you explain what the fuck happened here?!”

 

“Listen, Matsuda-kun,” the man from before exhaled, finally getting half an idea of cleaning the aforementioned glasses with a sterilized wipe, “It’s been a tiring afternoon for all of us and we have no patience for interrogations by insolent brats like you.”

 

The Ultimate Neurologist made his own half-hearted attempt at simmering down, but the boiling rage was likely clear to all of them from his expression and still clenched fist. A form was still behind the glass separator that now had a few rifts and splatters of blood on it, curled up on the floor. Nobody cast a glance there. Nobody cared. 

 

“Respectfully—” Matsuda’s voice was suffocated mid-sentence by the rage rising in him again; he restarted. “Respectfully, it would be important for my research to have a detailed account of the subject’s behaviour to facilitate my judgement on whether another operation is required.”

 

The researcher smirked. 

 

“Now, that’s an agreeable tone. The documentation is right here—” he patted the dossier before him on the desk, “The subject will be escorted to your laboratory soon. Take your time to review everything.”

 

*

 

_ I can’t call him selfish, that’s the most angering thing. He should be better at enduring suffering, otherwise it’s me who’s done a shit job. This sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen.  _

 

After close evaluation, Matsuda deemed it wise to start with the hair itself, picking up the longest gloves he had to maneuver Kamukura next to the sink without getting his own clothing dirty. He rinsed the long, black mass, section by section, pushing the other’s head right under the tap at the end, then listened to his coughs and spits somewhat apathetically. 

 

Kamukura rose as soon as his nape was let go of. His eyelids were more droopy than usual and he wore an expression that now showed exhaustion besides emptiness. Matsuda had read the resume of the latest test, a factual description of the drug’s possible adverse effects and how Kamukura had ‘lashed out’ — allegedly — because of them. All members of the personnel responsible for his containment had suffered severe injuries and had to, in turn, use  _ physical measures _ against the test subject… The blood on his body, therefore, wasn’t only his own. When reminded of this, the neurologist cast him an annoyed glance and was left with no reaction, as expected. 

 

_ Maybe it’s useless to even ask him; he’d only reply in some cryptic manner through complicated meandering no one else can understand and it’d turn out he had no sensible motivations in the first place.  _

 

Matsuda was only human and therefore did pointless things whimsically from time to time. 

 

“Couldn’t you have stayed still? You’ve caused a lot of trouble.”

 

Kamukura’s lips remained sealed shut as the blood was gradually wiped off his body with the wet towel the doctor was forced to sacrifice for the job, being that paper sheets probably wouldn’t have sufficed.

 

“You attacked them simply because you’re an overly-destructive asshole, didn’t you? What a fucking struggle.”

 

The Ultimate Hope’s injuries, too, were revealed after he had been meticulously cleaned. As he played treasure hunt among the countless scratches and bruises all over his body, Matsuda ended up discovering a deeper cut on his abdomen, another on one of his thighs and two more on his back. These must have caused decent blood loss, especially the one slicing through the femoral artery — he did a quick job at bandaging up the wounds. 

 

*

 

Kamukura rested on the operating table for the next few couples of minutes. Now sporting the patch-up of his injuries and the bottom of a hospital pajama rolled up on one leg, he’d been given a painkiller by the neurologist who had left a little earlier without explaining where he was going. He started wondering why the other would leave him unsupervised; but then again, this was Yasuke Matsuda who had no respect for regulations he found senseless or detrimental. Besides, it was obvious that Kamukura had barely any forces within him to move by an inch. 

 

He closed his eyes, only to find an inability to fall into slumber from the stinging of the cuts. The boredom that plagued every moment of his life was once again looming over him like a veil, to the point where even looking around himself seemed like a useless effort — and so he stayed, with some foolish belief that pretending to be asleep would eventually make the pretense true. Just then, coincidentally, he overheard a series of voices from outside the laboratory, muffled by the wall between them but still discernible. 

 

_ “And you dare call me unprofessional, huh? Pumping someone full of that shit, you should be damn prepared to face the consequences!” _

 

_ “Same goes for you when you agreed to participate in the project, kid.” _ The second voice was much calmer albeit condescending.  _ “You’re not in charge here so don’t run your mouth.” _

 

_ “You fuckers are nothing without me. I could out your little project anytime and then everyone would know…” _ There were noises of struggle then, someone being pushed against something, although it was unclear whom and what. _ “Everyone would know about what you did to a living person.” _

 

_ “You might be forgetting that it was you who did the job. Do you really think you’re in any position to act cocky?” _

 

Someone started walking away.

 

_ “Fucking worms.” _

 

It was obvious to Kamukura that Matsuda had been bluffing, that he wouldn’t have abandoned the project either way, and that he had some sort of personal motivation for all of those things. Hence the reason why he couldn’t interpret his actions and was left confused — but for once not bored — until he came back a few seconds later, still cursing under his breath. At first Matsuda paid no mind to the one lying in the laboratory, apparently too occupied to settle down his own anger; only a bit later did he turn to Kamukura again, with an odd look of exhaustion unusual of him. 

 

“Is it any better? Are they bleeding as much as before?”

 

“I’m recovering. My level of physical pain is tolerable” the Ultimate Hope replied, sitting up on his makeshift bed. 

 

Matsuda grunted to himself and opened a drawer somewhat violently and hastily, popping out two pills only to press them in Kamukura’s open palm. It wasn’t the right time to argue, so he swallowed them without putting too much thought into it.

 

“Since you’re so lively, you may now explain why the fuck you did that.” Matsuda straddled his chair, elbows leaning on the backrest.

 

“Why I did  _ what _ ? I’m not sure which part concerns you.”

 

“Stop playing dumb, it’s not what I rewired your brain for. The drug they gave you doesn’t produce aggressive behaviour, so why pick a fight with them on purpose?”

 

“Why did  _ you _ pick a fight with them?”

 

Matsuda stood up and reached out with one hand to instinctively grab the other either by the chin or the hair, then changed his mind and sat back down. He ran his fingers through his own dark, messy locks to calm himself. Kamukura followed up quickly, perhaps because he already got bored of messing with the doctor. 

 

“I was in pain and I felt anger. There’s nothing more to it.”

 

Matsuda lifted up his chin from the backrest where he had positioned it. 

 

“So you’re still capable of feeling emotions, after all” he sighed. “Well, that’s disappointing.”

 

_ He’s not making any sense at all. Not in the way he’s supposed to. It’s time I give up. _

 

“Before,” Kamukura said, spontaneously, “you were talking to your superiors. You called me a ‘living person’.”

 

Meanwhile, Matsuda started pacing around the room casually, stopping at the last couple of words as he showed his back to the other.

 

“What of it?” He turned around. 

 

“You know I’m not—” 

 

Kamukura was cut off by his own wincing and moan of agony, contracting and reaching at his thigh. At that point, he looked more surprised than Matsuda who quickly came to his rescue with a change of bandages as the red stain slowly expanded on the old ones. 

 

“You were in pain,” he walked back on Kamukura’s earlier words as he removed the drenched fabric, layer by layer, replacing it, “and you felt anger.”

 

The test subject didn’t show any less surprise at that, perhaps this kind of reasoning only served to create more confusion — along with the chills that went down his spine when Matsuda’s fingertips accidentally came into contact with his skin, perhaps because they were cold. 

 

“What else am I supposed to call you?”

 

And, admittedly, Kamukura didn’t have a good reply in mind. 

 

*

 

Matsuda was weak to human suffering happening before his eyes. He hoped he’d grow out of it and after some of the interventions he had performed — which he dreaded thinking back to — he was almost convinced that he had, but it always ended up with him trying to  _ help _ , desperately and compulsively, even when there was no hope. He knew in the back of his mind, for instance, that there was no hope for Junko. Despite the intricate little method they had come up with, when it came to practice, it was impossible to maintain her amnesia forever. She needed constant assistance, and besides that, a  _ trigger _ , a single stimulus could’ve thrown all of the work out the window in mere seconds. It was odd to see her want to try anyway and it smelled fishy, but little did Matsuda’s rational part care when Junko was finally demonstrating signs of giving up on her beloved  _ despair _ . No, all the details that bugged him could be brushed aside for the prospect of finally making amends for what he  _ couldn’t do _ for his mother, and even if he was walking into a trap, it was fine. The principles that led him there were more important, after all.

 

From this perspective, Kamukura put him at ease a lot less. He didn’t have an explanation for him, not even a delusional one; even less explanations did he have for what made him care so much when it was about an entity who was barely able to conceive feelings. In the end, it was that damn, deep-ingrained compassion of his that he just couldn’t let go of. It was the vision of someone repeatedly treated like an object, hurt, beaten-up, tossed around. But whatever concern Matsuda could’ve had for him would be left with no reaction. Was that bitterness he felt when he thought about it? What was even surprising about the situation?

 

*

 

Kamukura didn’t feel like a superhuman with every conceivable intellectual capability and power. He felt inflexible and broken.

 

“Hey,” came a fitful mutter from Matsuda, “it won’t happen again, alright?”

 

He didn’t exactly know what he was saying, one arm around a seemingly unfazed Izuru Kamukura, but it was one of the many things he, unfortunately, couldn’t help. He was in the process of escorting him back to the secluded room he usually slept in, considering he was in a state that made it hard for him to walk back on his own. Hard — not entirely impossible, though. Matsuda could’ve asked someone else to do this in his stead, too, but he couldn’t overcome the deep-seated distrust he had in the rest of the project staff. 

 

Upon further reflection, the comment could’ve been a reaction to the passing thought that the person before him was suffering more than anyone else who came to mind. At least Junko had the lucidity to convince herself that she was fine — Kamukura didn’t know what ‘ _ fine _ ’ was. And Matsuda could scold himself as much as he wanted about acting like a sentimental brat for a moment, but he wasn’t detached enough to change. 

 

In that out-of-place moment of intimacy, if it could be called that, Kamukura was halfway between complete relaxation and some weak effort in clinging to the back of the other’s shirt, fingers bending around the fabric but not grabbing it properly. Even now, it was hard to interpret whether he had any issues with Matsuda holding him like that, but he wasn’t trying to free himself. He was also barely conscious, that much the doctor knew perfectly. There was a high chance he wasn’t seeing or hearing or paying attention to any of it — but even if, in all likelihood, a vigilant Kamukura would’ve been apathetic to a silly and clumsy attempt at  _ care _ like that, it didn’t matter. As long as the neurologist could  _ believe  _ that he wouldn’t be, it made him less heart-heavy about participating in the Kamukura Project at least. 

 

Kamukura — surprisingly — spoke then, and there was something in his half-asleep tone that struck as odd.

 

“Why are you reassuring me?”

 

That  _ something _ was probably the fact that he managed to pose exactly the question that Matsuda had asked himself earlier. It was to be expected; that talking to someone who could practically read your mind would resemble talking to your own self. He wanted to reply something insulting, to take away from the seriousness if not anything else, but what he ended up blurting out in a suffocated voice was plain honesty.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“You’re treating me like a child.”

 

“What should I do, when you have to be constantly prevented from getting yourself killed? Idiot.”

 

“I never asked you to.”

 

“Stop repeating that over and over, just shut up.”

 

Matsuda kept walking along with him in the same position. Somehow, he was angry at Kamukura, and he couldn’t explain why. Angry at him for refusing to react like a  _ person _ , whereas it was he, himself who was — or should’ve been — working towards inducing said loss of personhood. A gordian knot of ethical contradictions. Matsuda was also angry at himself. 

 

*

 

“Hey. Get up.”

 

Kamukura was struggling to even keep his eyes open.

 

“I told you to get the fuck up.”

 

His mind was fabricating resumes of his physical condition and assessments of how much of his injuries had healed —  _ completely _ , none. Keeping himself standing was not impossible, but it required effort. His legs were trembling, muscles fatigued from both exhaustion, the wounds and the drugs. The vision of his surroundings was blurry at best, but he could make out the contours of that sharp, pale face and a pair of blue eyes examining him with clear irritation.

 

Matsuda gave him another shove in the chest. It wasn’t even a strong one, but it sent Kamukura on the floor again as his knees buckled under him. 

 

“Get up, you useless lab rat, or this is never going to work.”

 

The Ultimate Hope could see less and less clearly. It was easier to keep his eyes shut as he panted, sustaining himself on his elbows while lying on his side again, the cold tiles of the laboratory’s floor pressing against the part of his thigh peeking out from under the gown.

 

“I’m at my limit” he muttered.

 

“Good, that’s the idea. And that’s why you need to stand up when I tell you to.”

 

“I can’t-”

 

“You  _ can _ , you just  _ don’t want to _ .”

 

“Then give me a reason why I should.” Kamukura was almost,  _ almost _ reaching a state of upset. It wasn’t something he recalled experiencing often besides the latest incident.

 

“Your reason is,” the test subject suddenly found himself pressed down onto the ground, erupting in a coughing fit as the sandal in the middle of his chest got him right in the lung, “Your reason is that I’ll make this longer and harder for you if you don’t. Now, get your shit together.”

 

Kamukura gathered all the strength in at least his arms when Matsuda stepped off him. His biceps were trembling as well, motor units dropping out one by one, but he kept up the movement long enough to get on his knees. He desperately tried to coordinate his body to follow the orders, only to finally be face-to-face with the other in a few seconds, albeit still in an unstable position.

 

He was expecting the push this time. He stumbled but miraculously managed to regain a sense of balance, still breathing heavily and keeping his eyelids open forcefully. Kamukura shifted his gaze upwards, looking Matsuda straight in the eyes with a sense of defiance.

 

“Wasn’t that hard, now, was it?”

 

If he had the energy, he would’ve commented on how absolutely wrong that was, that he knew exactly how much he was exerting himself and he also knew that Matsuda knew. 

 

“What a miracle that you managed to even get this far” he continued. “You’re  _ this _ close to being considered a failed experiment, you know. Your physical endurance is shit, you handle drugs badly and you don’t react to stimuli the way you should.”

 

There was something awakening in Kamukura again. All that allowed him to give it a name was factual observations he had made about people around him, memorizing the denomination for states of mind similar to his current one. He had used the word before;  _ anger _ . He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it seemed accurate, just like when he had talked about it to Matsuda before. It urged him to do many things, — hitting the doctor in any part of his body he could reach would’ve been one of them — thoughts he was incapable of putting into action in his physical state.

 

“What’s with that face? Are you mad at me?” Matsuda looked at him, expression somewhat softening, but merely due to amusement. 

 

Kamukura was trying to dredge up a sensible rebuttal. The words remained stuck in his sore throat. 

 

“Maybe I should inform the Steering Committee that their precious walking tumor cell is still throwing temper tantrums when it should allegedly be emotionless. Tell Kirigiri they all fucked up and they should just send you back to the Reserve Course.”

 

The Ultimate Hope’s pupils narrowed at that, but it lasted barely a moment. Something overtook him, making him feel a sudden rush of both strength and composure; he straightened his back, relaxing his stance.

 

“There’s no need. I’m calm.”

 

He could see something shifting on Matsuda’s face, but he didn’t verbally comment on it. The scalpel coming at him with an almost unperceivable speed was merely a circumstance; he barely had a fight-or-flight response in stopping it mid-air, catching the blade between his index and middle finger. Kamukura could tell the Matsuda was slightly relieved for a moment, despite him making a visible effort in hiding it. 

 

“Are we done?”

 

“For today. Don’t think you’ll get off with this much tomorrow” he furrowed his brows at him, compiling a document with a few short pen strokes. 

 

“I’m tired. I need to sleep.”

 

*

 

And sleep he did. Kamukura didn’t seem bothered by his supervisor’s presence either; he positioned himself on the same bed as before, but contrary to last time, he shut his eyes and remained frozen immediately. It was the sort of deep sopor that made one look almost dead, even breaths cut down to a critical low; his face was colorless enough, too. Anyone who wasn’t used to the image would’ve gotten worried.

 

Matsuda was keeping his cool instead. He reordered the stack of papers and put them down on the desk; the topmost one, the one he had just filled out earlier, was a record of the subject’s checkup results. Nothing but a standardized sheet for general reports on his condition, blank fields with vague enough titles to leave room for him to wiggle. If he had one for, say, precise reflex timing, Kamukura would’ve scored perfectly. He wouldn’t have had the possibility to describe his performance as ‘ _ poor _ ’, abusing of his power as the only one keeping the Ultimate Hope under observation in these times. 

 

A possibility was just a possibility, and in the end, Matsuda’s pen had traced an ‘ _ excellent _ ’ almost involuntarily, a mixture of pressure from above and his own cowardice.  _ I’m a doctor _ , he kept telling himself,  _ and I need to do my job _ . And what a far-reaching but absolutely pointless job it was… 

 

He had no second thoughts about the reports or anything else. It was late evening already, and the artificial lighting of the lab was giving off an even shabbier atmosphere than normally as he took a few steps towards the bed Kamukura was sleeping on. For a few minutes, he did nothing but stare — and it felt peaceful, somehow, even if it was him (again) who had reduced him to this state. At least he could rest better now, ironized his inner commentary. But it didn’t take long to be buried under yet another pile of guilt, and Matsuda had to make a conscious effort not to get any closer than  _ necessary _ . 

 

He should have looked away earlier. He should have looked away when Kamukura got beaten to bloody pulp the first time — because now it was too late to look away. And even if he tried, he still saw the other’s face from the corner of his eye and that made him unable to leave the room and go back to his dorm like he wanted to. Instead, Matsuda stood there like a fool, and maybe it was because he got tired as well, but he couldn’t repress the need to reach out. To check if Kamukura was still alive. If he was breathing properly, if his heart hadn’t stopped yet. It was another irrational act. One of those he couldn’t help. But it  _ did _ dispel his panic quickly at least, because the test subject’s cheek was warm — so warm, actually, that Matsuda took a mental note to check for fever. But he’d let Kamukura be for now, or tomorrow’s  _ training _ would’ve put him in an even worse condition.

 

“Please,” he spoke quietly, not quite sure himself why he was talking aloud in the first place, “fail the next one. Pass out.”

 

Upon noticing that his hand on the other’s face wasn’t waking him up, Matsuda got more brazen and put on some pressure. His fingers were getting tangled in Kamukura’s hair which still had a few remainders of dry blood in it — it was impossible to wash the entire damn thing properly — and he brushed the lock aside, behind his ear. There was an inconsistency to his treatment of Kamukura in different states of consciousness, and it was comical and maybe a little pathetic. How he couldn’t help the protectiveness when things went too far and then reverted back to his mistreatment. But there was no one there to stop him, not even his own inhibitions this time, and he was going to stroke that expressionless face like a stupid, infatuated kindergartener if he pleased. 

 

His heartbeat picked up in panic when Kamukura shifted a little, he didn’t dare to move for the next thirty seconds. Only then did Matsuda take note of how much his hand was trembling, and it could’ve been the fear, the cold, anything else; he couldn’t tell. Suddenly, what he was doing felt beyond idiotic, so he left with quick steps, careful not to make too much noise. Izuru Kamukura would remain locked inside the lab for the night, hopefully having gained somewhat of an ability to keep his destructive tendencies on leash. 

 

*

 

“Had a bad sleep, Matsuda-kun?” 

 

“Terrible, actually. I was hoping for a better morning but then it turned out I had to come here to chat with you.”

 

Kirigiri maintained his smile. It was one among the many irritating things about him — that he kept up that disgusting, disingenuous expression whenever addressing the Ultimate Neurologist, as if his facial muscles were stuck in place. Furthermore, he had a habit of tapping his pen on the desk that annoyed Matsuda to an unreasonable degree. Perhaps, whatever this man did, it would’ve grated on his nerves all the same; he exhaled, leaning back into the armchair and examining the  _ incredibly interesting _ ceiling above him so at least he wouldn’t have to look at the school principal. 

 

“How’s the project going?”

 

“There are regular reports on it, it was completely pointless to call me here for this. Can I go?”

 

“Well, you know,” Kirigiri rolled his eyes up a little, as if he was going to say something funny, “there’s a difference between reading a bunch of papers and a firsthand account. I’m interested in  _ impressions _ .”

 

“I wouldn’t tell you anything that wasn’t in the documents. Stop wasting my time” Matsuda replied before the other could even finish his meandering little discourse. 

 

“What is Kamukura-kun like?”

 

Matsuda took a few moments off to think; he was well aware of the completely unwanted and unintentional emotional involvement on his part that he didn’t want to untangle right here, right now. His tendency to be blunt without reflecting didn’t help either — something gave him the impression that he was walking on eggshells when talking about Kamukura to Jin Kirigiri. 

 

“He is—” Matsuda swallowed, still careful about his words, “—stable, at the moment. His physical conditions are being improved.”

 

“Is his intelligence working as planned?” There was a sinister glimmer of interest in the principal’s eyes, and the other regretted looking into them. He turned his head the other way as he answered.

 

“Yes. He makes accurate predictions. Gekkogahara can confirm this as well.”

 

Just when the neurologist was about to complain about being short on time again, Kirigiri caught him off guard with the next question.

 

“How about emotions and the personality removal, did everything go smoothly?”

 

“It appears to have worked. He’s— neutral about most things.”

 

_ What a nice euphemism for someone who looks like the personification of depression and is perpetually bored. _

 

Jin Kirigiri fell silent for a while, chin supported on both hands and gaze fixated on the empty desk in front of him, as if he was in deep thought. At least he wasn’t smiling now — but he was, shortly, when he stood up with a sigh, pulling out a stack of documents from a drawer. 

 

“Actually,” he patted them, “I  _ do _ read the reports, Matsuda-kun. And I  _ did _ trust your account would match them — which is why it’s hard for me to wrap my brain around not hearing about a series of  _ anomalies _ from you.”

 

_ So this was it, now I’m done for. How the fuck did I forget? _

 

“Do you have memory issues as well now, like that girl you’re treating? Maybe it’s contagious.” 

 

Matsuda furrowed his brows in disgust at the other’s attempt at humour, but that didn’t keep his palms and forehead from sweating profusely due to the anxiety. In moments like these, he had to remember how cornered he was. If he took his misbehaviour too far, Kirigiri and the people who worked for him could do anything to him. Or to Junko. Or, and especially, to Kamukura. 

 

_ I’m prepared for this scenario as well, I should keep it in mind. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. _

 

“I’ve been training the subject since then to tackle the issues” he blurted out. It wasn’t even a lie; it was his plan B.

 

“I don’t recall that being documented” Kirigiri scratched his chin in mock-confusion.

 

“I kept a series of reports. I just haven’t handed them in yet.”

 

“You should inform us peasants of your initiatives next time, would that be too much effort, Matsuda-kun?”

 

The neurologist’s face had grown progressively paler throughout the conversation, which he wished with all his might would be over already. He hated everything about this, Kirigiri flaunting his power so passive-aggressively, saying his name like that, making fun of him, covertly threatening him. He hated how he talked about the project and Kamukura too, like a collector about to acquire a rare item, a shiny insect to pin to his wall with a needle and then put under glass. 

 

*

 

The Ultimate Hope stood, unfazed, with one of the scalpels in his hand. 

 

“Aim for my left shoulder.”

 

Matsuda was a few metres from him; just far enough to make their little game of darts challenging. He tapped his feet with impatience. Kamukura then threw. And he missed, with the small metal object bumping into a cabinet behind the other — risking to break its glass — then landing on the floor with a clink. 

 

“You screwed up again, for the third time. Maybe I should really give up with you. I’m sure they’ll take you back into the Res—”

 

“You’re asking the impossible” the subject interrupted him. Matsuda raised his eyebrows.

 

“It’s learned motor behaviour. If I missed earlier it was highly unlikely that I would’ve aimed perfectly after such little training” he followed up with a mutter.

 

“I guess you passed the cognitive part at least.”

 

The Ultimate Neurologist threw himself down on the chair with a groan, waiting a few seconds. He was probably trying to figure out what trick to pull out his sleeve next — something the other would’ve figured out anyway. Kamukura looked at him passively for a while, then spoke.

 

“Why do you expect me to do things that I’m physically incapable of? It won’t work. And it’s boring.”

 

“Why do you keep asking questions you know the answer to? It makes you look dumber each time.”

 

“If I don’t understand, it’s only your fault.”

 

He was left with no reaction. Talking to Matsuda was an experience that, he had to admit, had something peculiar about it. On one hand, being the one who performed the interventions on his brain, he knew things about Kamukura’s capabilities that even he, himself wasn’t aware of — on the other hand, as still a regular person, he had his own limits in knowledge and intuition comparing to the other. The Ultimate Hope could never tell which of them had the upper hand in their bickerings, but time and time again he got the impression that Matsuda was holding him on an invisible leash. Sometimes it was irritating, other times comforting. Not something he had a strong opinion on either way. 

 

His train of thought was interrupted by the doctor standing up and walking back to his earlier position, sporting his usual scowl. He threw the scalpel Kamukura’s way again.

 

“Try one more time. If you miss, I swear here and now that I’ll request they send you back.”

 

That kind of threat had become Matsuda’s habit in the past few days — it was hard to tell why so insistently. Undeniably, it brought out a reaction from Kamukura though, some underlying panic. He figured it must have been a remainder of his old personality; after all, that’s the only place where such an aversion towards going back to his earlier life could’ve come from. Still, he was barely even conscious of it. All he knew was that it made him anxious; perhaps he should’ve told Matsuda? Didn’t he know already, wasn’t that why he used this fear to his advantage against Kamukura? Why wasn’t he dismissing him outright if he was familiar with this flaw in Hajime Hinata’s repression? 

 

In full awareness of his agitation, he threw the knife again, deciding that caring too much would be to his detriment. As soon as it departed from his fingers, he closed his eyes, preparing to the dreaded prospect of remaining forever stuck in this midway state, stripped of everything he had had but not good enough to be this world’s  _ hope _ . Reserve Course.  _ Reserve Course _ .

 

“You fucking—  Goddammit! Fuck!”

 

As soon as Kamukura lifted his lids again, he was confronted with a visibly furious Matsuda and a bleeding spot on his lab coat, exactly in the place of his established target; furious, but also somehow shocked. It was an odd scene to assist to. He didn’t know what to make of it first. 

 

The doctor fumbled around with his equipment with hasty movements, looking for gauze or anything similar drawer after drawer. He had thrown the scalpel on the ground, still stained with a bit of his blood. Finally, he managed to find a handful of cotton that he held over the wound as a provisory solution, still mumbling curses. Kamukura, who had watched in silence until then, opened his mouth unsurely.

 

“Do you require help?”   
  


“I require you to shut the fuck up and not comment on this.”

 

Matsuda turned towards the floor as he sat down again. He didn’t even look into Kamukura’s direction, waiting for the bleeding to stop — and the latter stepped close to him on a whim, in a slight confusion as to what had happened. He saw the neurologist panting a little, then staring up at him eyes widened with  _ something _ he couldn’t describe, another emotional shift that he supposedly had been surgically prevented from understanding. His mind went blank; but, as little a thing as it was, that was an expression he couldn’t have predicted. Kamukura cherished these few moments without boredom, shadow looming over Matsuda’s uneasy, injured form. 

 

*

 

Getting bloodstains off the sink is relatively easy. It’s a smooth surface and they can be wiped off with a single movement; that is, if the wound has stopped bleeding already and isn’t replacing the droplets with new ones after each stroke of tissue paper. Despite this, even older ones — by days, weeks, even months — wouldn’t be impossible to remove. A bit of scraping and scrubbing, and the sink is as good as new. 

 

_ Who are you? What are you? _

 

To be taken into account; the tissue paper was running out in this particular case. Matsuda had been rubbing the porcelain surface in the bathroom of his dorm for what seemed like hours, white shavings piling up and rolling down the drain little by little. It was excruciating. He had no idea how he could’ve bled so much from the same cut on his shoulder and why it wouldn’t stop, but his actions were more mechanical than anything. Looking at his own face in the mirror before him occupied his attention enough to not even look at what he was cleaning up; and when he shot a glance there, he came to notice that the sink wasn’t that dirty anymore. 

 

He stared at his reflection because there was something particularly ugly about it that evening. Not that he cared that much about his own looks normally, but this time there was something that bothered him and he couldn’t put his finger on it — he lost count of how many times he had washed his face in that sole time lapse. Maybe it was the expression itself; maybe he had made the same one a few hours earlier at Kamukura in that scene that he just couldn’t,  _ couldn’t _ get out of his mind. He tried whatever. He tried checking on Junko to shift his interest, but the fact that she currently had more or less the intellect of a teaspoon didn’t help at all and just made him more tense from annoyance. 

 

It was all because Matsuda  _ got the message _ . He could’ve told himself something stupid — something along the lines of Kamukura getting his shoulder so perfectly out of pure coincidence, that maybe he had gone through some previous training he was unaware of, that he was just making fun of him before by missing. A fact is a fact; and the fact was that he went over the limit of what he was supposed to be able to do, and he did so purely by being threatened to be sent back to the Reserve Course. Matsuda would’ve very much called that an emotional reaction —  _ fear _ — but the complete hollowness that he was confronted with merely a few moments later, when Kamukura stared at him like that, made him realize that he had been wrong. There were no feelings there. It was a self-preservation instinct at best. 

 

_ It’s all my fault for even trying to understand. There’s no way anyone ever will. Kirigiri, you bastard, maybe you were in the right here. _

 

Because he had thought this through before, and because he naively thought it would settle his doubts and issues with Kamukura once and for all, right after leaving the lab at 8 PM that evening, Yasuke Matsuda paid a visit to the Steering Committee out of his own will. It wasn’t something he would’ve ever expected of himself, but he was so determined this once that he almost rushed through the old school building’s corridors and then the yard, already wrapped in an unpleasantly cold evening fog. They were supposed to be having a late meeting this day of the week, but obviously, the Ultimate Neurologist didn’t care much about bursting in in the middle of it. And the Committee didn’t care either — they were eager to listen to what he had to say when he arrived.

 

Matsuda blurted out an endless stream of phrases fabricated from a bravery gained out of panic. He reassured his superiors of everything — that the Kamukura Project could proceed as planned, that the subject was fit; he talked about his perfect test scores, his superhuman reflexes and aim, his sharp mind, his quick learning, and how he was now able to keep himself from lashing out like he had during the latest incident. How he was emotionally numb, had no wishes or preferences and no personality either — adaptable and perfect. It was all said in a tone of politeness that he hadn’t used in a long time and that he felt was disingenuous through and through, but convincing them was more important. He even proposed the drug test be repeated in order to demonstrate Kamukura’s increased resistance, a voice in the back of his mind reminding him of a faint ‘ _ it won’t happen again _ ’, but which he quickly muffled. 

 

_ And I thought that would solve anything _ .

 

When he looked into the mirror, he didn’t see an Ultimate, a genius set for life who had worked on incredibly complex projects despite his young age. He saw a delusional idiot. Delusional about his own strength. Delusional about being able to save anyone — his mother first, Junko soon, now Kamukura next. He was delusional about his detachment from the situation, too. It was a face he didn’t even want to look at, and that’s how he saw the bloodstains again, multiplying quickly like reproducing cells.

 

“Shit…” He exclaimed out loud unwillingly, grabbing the last, miserable pieces of tissue paper he had left. 

 

Matsuda scrubbed,

 

_ Who are you? _

 

And he scrubbed more;

 

_ What are you? _

 

He scrubbed until the blood had diffused all over the place, including a copious amount on his hands — he tried cleaning them as well, but it wasn’t nearly enough to absorb everything from the looks of it. For a few seconds he stared, tap water running steadily — at the sink, his hands, the tissues, all covered in insistent, red stains. He was then hit by a sudden wave of vertigo;

 

_ Am I dying of blood-loss? What the fuck is going on? _

 

Matsuda’s forehead almost bumped straight against the mirror, but he miraculously managed to stop himself in the last moment. When the dizziness subsided, the state of delirium left him as well, so that he could finally examine his surroundings properly. As it could’ve been expected from a dream or a low-quality horror movie, there was no blood anywhere; only the wet and torn up flakes of paper all over the place and the dull ache in his shoulder, already appropriately covered in gauze. The tap was still slightly open — like before — and Matsuda remained mesmerized by the water’s flow for a little while. He didn’t know through what association, but he thought of Hajime Hinata. He thought of the surgeries. He thought of the past months and Kamukura’s  _ perfectionment  _ that looked so much like deterioration. There was Ryoko Otonashi — Junko Enoshima — in his mind, asking for help. There was Hinata again, asking for help. There was his mother, asking for help. Kamukura was there, too, but he didn’t ask for anything. 

 

And Matsuda stayed like that, like somebody who had lost his capacity to function completely, as he watched the narrow column of water dripping — slowly, monotonously, then a little bit more profusely. 

 

*

 

It was afternoon; a sunny one, almost peaceful if one could ignore the protests outside. As secluded as the lab was, a few of the rebels’ voices filtered through occasionally; Kamukura heard them perfectly every time, being that his ears were sensitive enough. It got him wondering if Hajime Hinata would’ve gone out to participate, maybe he would’ve — but, on second thought, there was a reason why that person didn’t exist anymore. He was too humble, too desperate. He couldn’t have turned against the will of something he admired so much. 

 

Matsuda had been acting odd. He hadn’t looked at him properly ever since their latest  _ personal training _ , which also served as the ending to all of them, because he decided to cut them short after it. It could’ve been his injury — or it could’ve been that he had achieved his desired result in that moment. Kamukura couldn’t even decide what that  _ result _ was supposed to be anymore, but his only guess was that Matsuda had been impulsive and inconsistent, hence why he couldn’t get to the bottom of it despite putting his Ultimate Analyst talent to work. The other was filling out papers with full concentration — even more boring than usual. Today’s was nothing but a regular checkup, yet another predictable thing. Kamukura was bitter about it in the back of his mind, but more than that, overwhelmingly bored.

 

Sometimes it occurred to the Ultimate Hope that if he wanted, he could create entertainment for himself. He could enliven the events. 

 

“Those tests,” he said, “you never wanted me to pass them, did you?”

 

Matsuda cast him a strong glare and put down the pen.

 

“And what made your supreme, genius self think that?”

 

“Hunch. And the other possibilities didn’t make more sense.”

 

“I’m not obligated to explain the logistics behind tests to you.”

 

Kamukura turned towards the window despite the sunlight bothering his eyes a little.

 

“I wasn’t going to ask. I prefer it this way, unpredictably.” 

 

Matsuda got up without replying in order to begin the regular routine. He gestured him to sit on the chair underneath the scanner, and the other obeyed, already knowing what to do. It all went as it should. None of them spoke. When they were done, as the neurologist was in the process of detaching the last electrodes, combing through his hair with uncharacteristic care and setting locks aside, Kamukura realized he had something to talk about. He had had, for a long time.

 

*

 

Suddenly, there was something pulling at his sleeve. It caught Matsuda so off guard he almost gasped audibly, only to find the fabric — around his upper arm — crumpled in the clutch of fingers, and those fingers belonged to a still blank-faced Kamukura who didn’t even look in his direction.

 

“Matsuda.”

 

“What is it?” He tried to put as much nonchalance as possible into his voice, but the concern transpired nonetheless.

 

“I have—” the Ultimate Hope paused, as if looking for the correct wording, “—an attachment to you.”

 

Silence.

 

“You… What?” 

 

_ No, no, you don’t. You can’t do this now.  _

 

“You don’t have to…” Kamukura trailed off, looked more uncomfortable than he ever had, more uncomfortable than he was supposed to — as the world’s alleged  _ Hope _ . “You don’t have to do anything about it. It doesn’t matter that much. I just thought you should know — I suppose you wouldn’t have believed it if you had heard through Gekkogahara-san. I’m reporting it because it’s an anomaly.”

 

_ Oh, are you? _

 

“And… I don’t have to do anything about it.” Matsuda leaned lower, maybe in the hopes of getting Kamukura to turn towards him so he could try and assess from his face whether it was supposed to be a joke or not.

 

“I suppose you have— other people you care about.” 

 

It was all to no avail, because the test subject was still refusing to look his supervisor in the eye. His hand, in contrast, was still grasping at Matsuda’s lab coat with what seemed like increasing strength and desperation. From what was perceptible of it, his body language demonstrated the opposite of his words, but Matsuda was at a point where he couldn’t recognize his own biases in interpretation. 

 

“You really are a miserable lab rat.” As he said that, he placed one hand on the side of Kamukura’s head in order to turn it around, maybe a bit too forcefully. 

 

They were face to face, finally, and Matsuda hated it, he hated all of it. It wasn’t a hollow expression this time, and he almost felt like punching it from the anger he was feeling, the  _ despair _ , so much that he started speculating on how much Junko would enjoy seeing him struggle like that.

 

_ Ultimate Neurologist my ass, I’m a failure _ .

 

“Say,” he started, quietly, “if I kissed you now, what would you do?” He got closer  _ because he couldn’t help it _ , and now he hated himself along with the rest. “Would you throw this entire project under the bus by giving a blatant demonstration that you still perceive emotions?”

 

Kamukura didn’t reply; he seemed almost frozen in place, paler than usual if that was even possible. This only made Matsuda ramble on more to fill the gap.

 

“Well, it’s a little too late for that. The project can’t be interrupted in any way now; my doing.”

 

“You answered your own question. This doesn’t change a thing then” the other rebutted.

 

He was right, that’s why Matsuda really did end up kissing him. When this potential scenario played in his head as he talked about it, he imagined it would be an awkward graze of lips, barely physical contact — not that he would kiss Kamukura again and again, vehement and uncontrolled, almost forgetting to let either of them breathe in the meantime. His hand, still on the other’s temple, tensed up so much he thought it would break spontaneously. And even when he had to pull away, he was already thinking of an excuse to do it again while he was fully aware of what an aimless can of worms he had just opened. 

 

“Bullshit it ‘doesn’t matter that much’.” 

 

Matsuda gave him a strict glare as if to say that he could see it in his face and that barely noticeable reciprocation before, that he knew Kamukura closely enough to pick up on his microscopical cues. Not only that, but he was the  _ only one _ who did. And he knew his pain as well, that’s why the situation was leaving him heartbroken; because he was weak to human suffering or just weak in general — as he was tempted to think by this point. 

 

Despite his ironic and severely detrimental  _ crush _ , it seemed like displays of affection still registered as computational errors for Kamukura. He hadn’t dared to speak a word since the start of the ordeal and looked confused and out of the loop. The only time he moved — clumsily and with two or three electrodes still attached to his scalp — was when Matsuda, concluding that he couldn’t think of a better reaction, pressed his lips against his yet again. The Ultimate Hope, or the person who was supposed to be called that, wrapped his arms around his back unsurely. He should’ve expected this; that Kamukura would rather lazily wait for him to do anything because of how little grasp he had of what was happening in the first place. He pulled him against his chest, wires tensing a little, and decided that would be enough. 

 

“God, why—” he had to pause, being slightly embarrassed himself, “Why me of all people? That’s the stupidest choice you could possibly make.”

 

“I don’t have anyone else.”

 

Maybe Kamukura knew how to push his buttons — or maybe he said that specific phrase coincidentally. Whichever was the case, it struck something in Matsuda that made him want to pull him closer and stay like that, not really caring about looking ridiculous after the biggest taboo had been breached. Reflecting on how and why it was completely absurd and wrong — there was plenty of time for that. The project, however, would end one day; and he was annoyed at himself for being paranoid enough to already be thinking about it.

 

“I told you—” Kamukura spoke, voice muffled against Matsuda’s shirt and monotonous again, “that you don’t have to do anything about it. It’s enough if you don’t leave. And I don’t have to—”

 

“Go back to the Reserve Course?” The neurologist interrupted him. “That won’t happen, as I said. You can wave goodbye to any prospect of ever living a decent life again. You asked for it.”

 

“I don’t want a life like that. It’s boring.”

 

“ _ You _ are the one who’s starting to get boring.” Matsuda tightened his arms around him, preventing him from seeing his expression. “You’re also an idiot. An absolute moron.” And the ending of the phrase sounded slightly suffocated.

 

_ Only a moron would walk into their own misery. _

 

*

 

Was equating a mass suicide to leaves falling from a tree poetic or simply warped? Those were the considerations Izuru Kamukura was having amidst of the school’s utter destruction, the school that gave life to him and that was the only place he knew. Of course,  _ conceptually _ , he was aware of the size of the world around him, but a few things were hard to tell without actual experience. For example, what he was supposed to do from that point onwards. He could have kept siding with Junko Enoshima, but the events and the mastermind herself were already boring him as of now. He leaned back, positing his nape on the backrest of the plain chair he was sitting on, in that lonely room that somehow remained immune to the catastrophes happening in the rest of the building complex. 

 

All he could perceive was a grim show of people jumping from the rooftop and briefly appearing before the window in front of him, only for their lives to end a few seconds later. Kamukura could hear the unpleasant sounds of it, too — but he wasn’t bothered. He had lost any understanding about why he should’ve been. He couldn’t do more than intensively think about the leaf-metaphor and then drop it, because there was a limit to how much one could euphemize something so ugly.

 

Besides, the faces of those students were even worse. They were empty but  _ despairing _ at the same time — maybe that’s what despair was, after all, just a big, existential  _ nothingness _ in one’s soul. If that was the case, Kamukura knew he had been close to it. And yet, he could see the difference between himself and Enoshima, how he could never fall as low as her. He felt immune to it. He tried to remember possible reasons for that — maybe it was some part of the project — but his memory was failing him. He wasn’t like Junko and he wasn’t like the Reserve Course students falling to their deaths either— he wasn’t the slave of anyone, not even a  _ passion _ ’s, and therefore he was  _ free _ , he was the only one there who could do as he pleased. 

 

Most of all, he thought as he walked up to the window to observe in more detail, he had decided he wasn’t going to walk into his own misery like the rest of them. What washed across his face wasn’t exactly a bitter smile, but someone who looked closely could’ve seen it as one. He talked under his breath, and his voice got lost among the screams.

 

“Who’s the moron, now, among the two of us?”


End file.
